All Wrong
by vanete druse
Summary: Draco Malfoy has difficulties with his feelings towards other guys that he can never obtain.


Rain and thunder. Lightning casting jagged rays of light across the darkened night sky. He was unsure if the storm was affecting his sleep or simply a coincidence as his gray eyes stared up at the black ceiling, daring not to think. Trying to force the sleep upon himself.

He had heard of the muggle sleeping pills and secretly scoffed at the wizards who took them; never before had he so desperately wished for them himself, as he was right then, stranded in a sea of black but so agonizingly aware of every minuscule movement it was impossible to believe the darkness as sleeping. No wave of exhaustion, no cotton lined cloud of unconsciousness rose up to meet him, catch him unawares as the storm raged on and his thoughts broke the barriers, the confines of his mind.

Memories, fuzzy from the years, played out before him and he could no longer deny them just by opening his eyes. They washed over him and he would have been pleased by the distraction, the almost asleep film they placed over everything else, if they weren't the ones he had tried so hard to repress into nothing.

_Crimson sheets entangled in a sleek body, the bits of skin that were visible so dazzling to him, so smooth and ivory, yet not holding the same dank paleness his own skin held. He wanted to lean over, to kiss the beautiful parts, to feel them against his own, but they weren't his to feel, nor were they his to kiss or even to look at. Yet, there he was, reaching out trembling fingers, so close..._

The teacher gently tapped him on the head, obviously annoyed and he flushed, sliding down in his seat, grateful for the desk in between them. "Now that Mr. Malfoy has joined us once again, I'm sure he wouldn't mind me docking fifteen points from Slytherin for sleeping in class."

His face hot red, he couldn't help but feel like he deserved the loss of points more than anyone else realized.

Even now, he could feel the heat of shame creep into his features at the thought of the dream. Having visions of late night activities with his "enemy" was something he didn't want to enjoy...but couldn't help it as his body unconsciously reacted and gave away his true feelings; lust, and want, that not even a marriage and a child could change it.

And, at first, he believed himself. Grudgingly, yes, but the truth was there and he could not deny it, even as he attempted to smother it with faked lust and attraction. When that produced a child, it was all the better to help keep up his facade.

If only, if only he had a daughter.

The next memory was much more recent, and therefore clearer and harder to repress. It flooded his senses and broke down his guard, leaving him vulnerable and weak. Fragile. The word hurt him to even think, but it soon dulled that, to make way for a new pain, a new insecurity.

If only, if only he had a daughter.

_It was late. The hour of the night that feels as if nothing, animal, human, or otherwise, could possibly be awake because of such a darkness that could only accompany such a stillness. He didn't particularly wish to be up, but he had been startled awake by a pointless nightmare, his throat so dry and uncomfortable all he wished to do was get a glass of cold water. Without even bothering with slippers, despite the cold hardwood floors, made even colder from the winter months, he snuck out into the hallway, and was about to slip down the main staircase and down to the kitchen before a thin beam of light caught his eye. A thin beam of light attached to a slightly ajar door that separated the hallway from his son's bedroom._

He sighed. Now he realized how his son could sleep so late during the breaks. With the intentions of doing nothing more than telling his son off for staying up so late, he made his way to the slightly ajar door.

So what made him slow down as he got closer? What made him peek inside the room instead of simply walking in like any normal father would do? Still, he had no answer, and yet he knew that was what he had done. Honorable intentions, dishonorable actions.

His gray eyes found much more than they were looking for as they peeked inside the room his wife had so lavishly decorated while his son had been at school. However, that was a poorly veiled attempt at a distraction from the true visual in front of his face.

His own son, unclothed, laying with spread legs atop the silvery sheets. His head was propped up against multiple pillows, the usually slick and neat blonde hair falling in his pale face, obscuring parts of the ecstatic expression as he pleasured himself. For a few moments, all he could do was stare, at the rocking hips, the slightest sheen of sweat that lay atop his skin, mostly upon his torso, the way his pink lips parted to quietly gasp or moan.

He watched until his son began to tremble slightly, tensing, and he stumbled back, drenched in his own sweat that felt cool against the wintry draft that invaded the Malfoy Manor. His own body was shaking, nearly dropping the glass, the water casting ripples as he attempted to sip at it but slopped the majority of it down his front. The image of his son on the bed took over his mind, casting itself over everything else, leaving him shivering with an unexplainable urge to go back to the room. To do unmentionable things to his own son.

The glass slipped beneath his fingers, clattering noisily upon the kitchen tile as he double over the sink, coughing up nothing more than stomach acid, which burned his throat in a very deserving way.

"...Father?"

His head snapped up and he was surprised that the violent notion hadn't cracked the bones in his neck, much less beheaded himself. The object of his newly acquired affection was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed hastily in a pair of green pajama pants, cheeks a bit pink and his hair still ruffled.

"Scorpius, go to bed."

"But are you alright? I heard the crash, and you were being sick--"

"Just go to bed."

Their gray eyes met; concerned and ashamed. Different feelings portrayed in identical eyes.

Scorpius turned and he watched him leave, back upstairs to a room with a lingering scent of sex, to sleep and wake up clueless. Innocent.

He reached up to grab another glass.  
  
The overwhelming feeling of the whole ordeal was far too much for him. How could he ever get away from it? Always there, always pounding sinfully in the back of his head, do it do it do it. But what 'it' pertained to, he was much too scared to find out.

The storm was beginning to fade, slowly moving to haunt its next destination with other unlucky souls. With the dark clouds out of the way, the beginning rays of morning light were peeking through the uncovered window, taunting him. Mocking him for his inability to sleep.

Throwing an arm over his face, he decided to call in sick to work, just as the muggle alarm went off, blaring in his ears. _Definitely sick._

"Mmm...morning, Draco," His wife yawned, but he lay unresponsive for a moment. "Draco?"

"Asteria, I'm feeling a bit under the weather and don't think I'll be up for work. Do you mind sending an owl for me?"

"Of course not, darling. Get some sleep."

He almost snorted at the thought, pulling the duvet over his head, closing his eyes in the make-shift darkness to focus upon sleeping and nothing else to quiet the simmering feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Father?"

His blonde head poked out from under the comforter, seeing a newly awakened Scorpius in the room, about to sit down on the edge of the bed. "Mother awakened me to say that you're sick. But she has work, so she's enlisted me to be your caretaker. Do you need anything?"

If there was anything he could have done to bring back the owl with his sick letter, he would have done it in a heart beat.


End file.
